Page 8 of Matteo's Mettle
When I look back up, he’s directly in front of me, his blue eyes lined with concern. He’s even more attractive up close. I hate myself a little for thinking that.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
I nod, finding it too difficult to use my words.
He cautiously lifts a hand to my cheek and uses his thumb to wipe away the evidence of my tears. His touch sends tingles up my spine and I swallow convulsively.
“You sure?” he double checks, and I lament the loss of his touch as he pulls his hand away.
I finally find my voice, hoarse though it might be. “Yeah,” I hesitate. “Thank you for stepping in.” I’m man enough to admit that I needed the help, even if I should have been able to handle the situation myself.
I’m not the macho posturing type, the sort of man to argue that I had it covered when I clearly did not. That tends to surprise people, but not this guy. His eyes go all soft and understanding.
“You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The endearment has my heart in my throat all over again. When was the last time anyone called me something so…so…affectionate? Oh, God, I’m going to cry all over again.
There’s something seriously wrong with me.
“I’m London,” he says, introducing himself while I struggle to get my shit together, and then extends the same hand that was cradling my face only moments ago.
I accept the handshake. His hand is a little smaller than my own, his fingertips calloused where mine are smooth. I’m betting he works with his hands. He’s got that rugged, outdoorsman look about him, even if he is clean shaven and wearing business attire.
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s still waiting for me to speak. “Matteo.” I don’t know why I give him my proper name. I much prefer Matt or, when I’m little, Matty.
London opens his mouth to say something else, but a loud call of “Uncle London!” has him turning to face the new voice.
It’s the little in the Belle costume. She stomps up with a pout on her lips and barely glances my way. “You promised we’d dance again.”
Instead of capitulating, London arches an eyebrow at her. “Katie,” he says in an authoritative tone that has my dick twitching in interest, “you’re being rude. I was talking to someone.” Here, he gestures towards me, before telling her, “I know your Mommy wouldn’t want to hear that you’re going around interrupting conversations and being bratty.”
Katie’s eyes widen. “No. Don’t tell Mommy. I’ll be good.” She turns to me and offers a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I just love dancing.”
“Good girl,” London praises, and fuck if I don’t want him to call me ‘good boy’ in the same way.
She sticks out her hand and I’m quicker to shake hers than I was his. “I’m Katie.”
“Matty,” I answer, feeling myself relax back into my little space to meet her at the same level. She’s really cute: buxom and dark haired, with round cheeks dusted with bright pink rouge and matching glossy pink lips. Her hair’s a bit messy from her prior exuberant dancing. “I like your dress. Belle’s my favorite princess.”
Her eyes light up and she starts tugging me towards the little dance floor. “Mine too! I want a library.Anda talking teacup.”
“I want a Beast.” The confession slips out of my lips easily, and I feel myself blush at London’s answering laugh.
Katie, thankfully, steamrolls the conversation forward. “What about a closet that can tell you what to wear and help you get dressed?”
“Or a kitchen that cooks for you.”
She giggles and I realize too late that I’m in the middle of the dance floor with her. “I don’t dance,” I tell her, but she rolls her eyes.
“You do now, Matty.”
At least when I’m in little space, I’m not expected to have rhythm or moves. She takes my hands in hers and sways her ample hips from side to side, pulling me into following the motion.
We’re halfway throughUnder The Seawhen she leans towards me with a conspiratorial grin. “Uncle Londonlikesyou.”
At my actual age, those words should not induce a swarm of butterflies in my belly, but they do. It takes all of my self-control to not turn and seek out the man in question with my eyes. Instead, I arch an eyebrow and wiggle my butt to the beat. Dancing this way has been surprisingly fun, and in my little space I’ve been able to avoid worrying about looking ridiculous. My refutation, when it comes, is mild. “I’m too old for that to be true.”
“Pfft,” Katie does an uncoordinated spin, “he likes older men.” Her expression turns a little pensive. “But he’s never been a Daddy before.”
